Shades of Grey
by Suchan and Twelve
Summary: 'Listen, Zira, I can explain.' The angel smiled, confused. 'You might want to, Crowley. Why are you holding a baby' Chapter 3 up, 1 more soon. also, SLASH. Don't like, don't read. Other warnings: Religious liberties taken, my neocatholic mindset.
1. Slacker

Shades of Grey

By Suchan and Twelve

Disclaimer: All these lovely characters except for Maggor are the nice Mr. Gaiman's and Mr. Pratchett's. Carries over into later chapters.

Notes: Slashy. Don't like, don't read. A little mature. A wee bit of violence, language, and nasty descriptions of hell.

That's about it. Read!

:P

_Slacker_

:P

"Where are those fucking files?! DAGON!"

The demon suddenly appeared at his side, panting. "Yes, lord."

"You're the Lord of the Files here, find me the reports on the Spanish Inquisition regarding the demon Crawly." Dagon bowed, and got to work. "I want them before tea time."

"Yes, lord," Dagon mumbled, fingers flicking ferociously through files upon files. He silently counted up the number of infernal filing cabinets that resided in the offices. _Satan bless it…_ He knew there had to be more than a hundred for that stretch of time.

Honestly, he wished they'd just computerise everything. Armada, reports on Dudgeon, Excrean, Harry… Maggor… He sighed, and kept looking.

:P

Hastur was settling down to a really good lurking break in his office. The flames licking up his charred and filthy walls were a mellow, relaxing red; he sighed. He'd been assigned to keep an eye on Crawly. Rumour was that he was slacking stupendously and may even be in friendly contact with an _angel_.

He shuddered with disgust and hate as he thought the word. The tension in Hell intensified for a second, then resumed its normal level of torment and grinding of teeth.

It _would_ be just like Crawly to make friends with the enemy. Hastur had always suspected that the demon wasn't quite evil enough to be a demon. At the time of the Fall, he'd always been looking back, seeming slightly worried about leaving Heaven forever, worried about the dark, putrid paradise they were headed for.

The Master had proclaimed this wonderful swamp of flames and anguish the perfect spot to set up headquarters. It had taken Crawly a long time to stop looking at the flaming, glorping walls with so much fear and near disgust.

Hastur put his feet up on his desk and leaned back in his chair, remembering. Once God had created those ugly little creatures, they designated Crawly, poor, ugly little Crawly with no legs or arms and that nasty, scaly body, to "get up there and make some trouble," as he recalled.

It was Hastur who had suggested the job to the Boss. He had hinted that maybe Crawly didn't have what it took, and the Boss got the hint. It was a test. Went great, actually. But now… he wondered if Crawly ever had misgivings about that.

Well, if he passes my next test, Hastur thought, I might just let it go… He closed his eyes and settled back in his chair for a nap.

:P

…_you're the best friend that I ever had…_ CROWLEY.

"Mm. Yeah." Crowley sighed and leaned back over to his side of the car, wondering if they'd notice if he turned off the radio. Aziraphale tried to neaten his hair.

CROWLEY, WE HAVE A PROBLEM DOWN HERE CONCERNING YOU.

"Great. What's wrong?"

THAT IS TO BE DISCERNED. THERE IS TO BE A TRIAL STARTING NOW.

Crowley sighed. "Alright, lord. Be right there." He turned off the radio, and looked over at the angel. Smiled a bit. "You'll be alright without me for a bit?"

Aziraphale smiled sadly. "Yes. I think." Crowley kissed him one last time, and the angel grabbed his coat and left the car. "Good luck."

Crowley smiled cynically, watching Aziraphale unlock the door to his shop. "Luck doesn't work down there, angel." He floored it back to his flat and parked in the enforced-security garage. He stood outside the Bentley, staring off at the wall. He wondered if he'd ever see the angel again.

Fear, real and pure, was boiling in the pit of his stomach. They'd probably notice that he reeked of angel. Crowley didn't mind it much anymore. But_they_ would. They might kill him just for that.

_Great! _He smiled with sarcastic cheerfulness, and disappeared.

:P

The Gates of Hell were always a sight. Tall as twenty men and two hundred feet across, made of black iron, flaming. Putrid. The screams of the damned were deafening… but it was much, much louder inside. Two disfigured demons, each with black, broken wings and charred, melted faces, guarded the Gates.

Sheol had been a nice distraction, grey with shimmery souls floating past, recoiling from his nearness. But now Crowley stood before the edge of the cliff that dropped off down to the Gates and Eternal Torment. His yellow eyes were unsure, and scanned the scene below him, the caterwauling grating on his ears. His sleek, jet wings unfolded behind him. Some souls behind him turned to watch as he took off and glided down.

"Wouldn't want to be him, for sure…" said one of the yellow souls dreamily, and then floated away to resume its conversation with a blue soul.

:P

The guards turned to stare at him. "Crawly?"

"Yeah, hi. It's Crowley, actually. With an 'o'."

"To the trial room. Down the Hall of Disfigurement an third door on your left." The guard stopped and gagged, holding his hand over his face. "_Satan,_ you reek! What is that _stench_? Is that _angel_?"

"I don't smell anything," Crowley said dismissively. "Can I go in now?" The demon stood back as the Gates creaked open with a hideous noise. Crowley cringed deeply, wanting for all the world to be listening to all the nails in the world scraping down all the chalkboards in the world in harmony with screaming children and fire alarms. At least he knew he could handle that.

The demon on the left grinned at him through his hand. "Good luck, man."

_Must be a newbie,_ Crowley thought, wiping all expression off his face and staring straight ahead. "Luck doesn't work down here, old boy," he said darkly, and, transfiguring as he went, slithered down the hall toward what he felt was the last room he'd ever see.

:P

"All hail Satan!"

"HAIL!" Crowley joined in patriotically, then waited worriedly for what was next. And oily, oozy voice instructed him to assume a humanoid form ("easier to restrain you, you see") and sit.

As he sat, the tendrils formed out of the chair's arms, legs, and back and strapped him in. Tightly. Crowley grimaced, but didn't fight it. It would only be the worse for him. He reminded himself that he was lucky he didn't need to breathe. He was sitting in a spotlight, red, with the rest of the room in total and complete darkness. It wasn't even the darkness of midnight during a new moon. He couldn't see through this viscous dark even with his demon's vision. It was like tar. He'd stopped breathing once he passed into Sheol. There wasn't any real air there, or here.

It would have made his lungs combust if he'd breathed in any of the fetid, gaseous darkness in Hell. For one thing, it probably _felt_ like tar.

There was muttering and gagging noises from around the room that definitely didn't come from the melting and shifting walls. Crowley stared up at the ceiling so he wouldn't strain his eyes trying to see what the other demons were doing in the shadows. "Crawly, there has been an investigation into all of thy reports." Normally Crowley would have inserted a witty comment here, but he didn't dare. Not for all the date-palm cocktails in the world. "We have heard rumours floating around that thou hast been, shall we say, shirking certain duties." There was a slight gagging, coughing noise. "Also, thou absolutely _stink'st_ of angel."

The chair-straps around his forearms and wrists began to seep an acidic substance that burned like…well, like Hell. Crowley grimaced. "We're not allowed to corrupt angels?"

"Well, thou seest, Crawly," said Hastur's voice from directly in front of him, "normally this would be allowed. But there is a problem with thy situation. We have received reports that thou art not corrupting him so much as thou wouldst like to think."

Crowley looked off to his left, wishing for something interesting to stare at and avert his gaze.

"The real problem we art facing here is a few rather old reports… Maggor."

Satan bless it. Maggor had a terrible reputation for ruining other demons' reputations by convincing the higher-ups that the demons in question weren't up to scratch. All but two had been obliviated. "Thank you, lord. I was in the same area as Crowley at the time of the Spanish Inquisition. I'm sure you remember that, Crowley?"

Crowley racked his brain and came up with date-palm cocktails, and a little tavern with Aziraphale, laughing at his stupid pouf of a hat. Those had gone out of style last year, he told an unabashed Aziraphale. Crowley snapped back to where he was with a sudden buzzing of voices like an army of bees.

"Sure I do."

Maggor's smirk seeped out of the shadows at him. "Hmm. I've always thought it was a bit hard to remember what goes on when you're drunk off your nut, myself." The smirk grew into a triumphant grin as the buzzing turned harsh and disbelieving. "You see, I was working. Working hard, really. All those priests went stark raving mad. The bloodshed was immense. And that…" he trailed off dramatically. "That is where I spotted our dear Crawly, loitering about in a little tavern, smashed like no other and laughing hysterically at a plant."

Crowley was glad he was sitting in a red spotlight. His ears were going pink.

"Just where were you when the bishop of Toledo was helping all those humans escape? When little Maria defended her brother in front of the entire court of Inquisitors?" Crowley mumbled something intelligible.

He knew someone was probing his mind. Probably one of the upper-Dukes. It was still a disturbing feeling, like fingers roving the flesh of his brain. It was impossible to lie.

"That's what I thought. Having lunch with the enemy, I believe. Came to find you, and you told me to bugger off. Thought we could have worked together for the greater glory, you know?" Maggor sighed. "But no. Dear Crawly was slacking off… again."

The incidences kept piling up. Other demons questioned him. Where was he then? What was he doing? Who was he with? He kept Aziraphale out of his unintelligible answers and out of his thoughts. There was a slight shift of movement audible.

The room fell silent, and Crowley knew the Master was about to speak and give the final verdict. Crowley knew it. Doomed, he was, never to see Zira again. He waited.

"I'm going to give you a choice, Crowley. This trial has been infinitely disappointing to me." The voice was a faint, raspy whisper, but Crowley heard the words echoing in his mind, louder than the chorus of damned souls outside the room. "You will either be stripped down to your bare soul and thrown into the Lowest of Torments…or…"

Crowley looked up expectantly.

"Or, you can look after the Antichrist for eleven human years as we prepare for the Final Battle." Crowley blanched.

"It's that soon?" His voice sounded weak and brittle, hardly even a whisper. The room fell dead silent.

"Hmm…You say that like you'd rather our Great Victory not take place, Crowley."

"Oh, no, Sir. I'm all for it, lord." Inside, Crowley was squirming like a pig at slaughter. The smirk loomed out at him.

"Make your choice." The words were a roar. Crowley shut his eyes in pain, thinking. What would be worse, raising the Spawn of Satan (he hated kids) or being stripped down to a raw, tiny soul, and endure the torment saved for the most abominable of damned souls?

Well, eleven years wasn't that long. It wouldn't be eternity, and he'd probably see Zira again.

"I'll look after the Antichrist."

"Good. He will be ready soon. Maggor will collect you when it is Time."

The chair released him and sank into the floor. Crowley scrabbled to his feet and left as hurriedly as he could, wishing with every stride he could go faster.

The souls in Sheol watched him shoot past, literally a bat out of hell; they rippled in the sonic boom left behind. "Wonder what happened to him," said the blue soul, and turned back to the yellow soul.

:P

End Ch.

:P

Haha! I love the souls of Sheol! Unfortunately, they won't be appearing much. anyway. Long-before-promised chapter is here. What did you think?


	2. Peekaboo!

_Peek-a-boo!_

_Shades of Grey_

_Chapter 2_

_Twelve and Suchan_

:P

He was shaking and pale as he closed the door behind him, slid down it. He sat on the floor. Sighed heavily, a sigh of relief. He'd escaped. Not unscathed, no, never unscathed. He smelled like the sulphurous caverns and melting skin of Hell. He was burned severely in several places. His eyes were red from the fumes and the raw heat.

Crowley shook his head, leaned it back against the door. The immaculate flat now seemed like a prison without bars, of the sort reserved for mental patients. Coming back out of his terrible reveries, he stood up and walked over to where his phone sat on a desk in his office.

Sat down in the chair, which spun a little as he turned toward the phone. It was one of the softest office chairs money could buy. Crowley often favoured having catnaps in it. Right now, he just wanted to sit back somewhere comfortable and revel in the fact that he was still alive and basically in one piece…

His fingers brushed over the super-sensitive buttons on his answering machine. "You have one new message," said the generic, computer-generated voice. He waited as it rattled off Aziraphale's number.

"Crowley, as soon as you get back, would you mind…stopping over? It's just… nevermind, I'll tell you when you get here." _BEEEEP._ Crowley sat up. Replayed the message. There was a faint trembling in the angel's voice. Something had scared him.

What?

Another demon had probably gotten his scent off of Crowley…aw, shit.

"Why me?" he cried, and disappeared into the phone line.

:P

Crowley reappeared in the shop, stumbling a little. It always took a second to regather his bearings. He stopped. The lights were all off, the "OPEN" side of the sign faced inward on the door, and there wasn't a sound, save the creaking of the floor under Crowley's shoes.

He waited. Sniffed. Aziraphale was still here somewhere. But he couldn't tell if the demon scent came from him or another. Fuck. He moved quickly and silently through the door to the little back room where Aziraphale spent most of his time reading.

It was dark, too. A small gasp came from the corner, where a dark red velvet fainting couch sat. "Crowley?"

"I'm right here, Zira." He smiled as he felt the angel's arms around his neck.

"Thank God. There was someone here earlier. Dark. Smelled absolutely rancid. Wanted to know where he could find a rare book on plants." Aziraphale left him and closed the door, locked it, turned on a small lamp. In the dim light flooding the room, Crowley could see more clearly how pale Aziraphale's face was, how wide his scared eyes were.

"He didn't hurt you?"

"No," Aziraphale said, frowning and sitting down on the couch. "Maybe he was just…looking. For future reference." Crowley sat down next to him and pulled the angel onto his lap. Aziraphale leaned his head on Crowley's shoulder, then wrinkled his nose. "Ugh. You smell _awful._"

"So do you, love," Crowley laughed. "You have no idea how much crap I got for having your stench on me." Aziraphale looked up at him, bright, blue eyes questioning.

"You really think I smell bad?" Crowley smiled down at him, shook his head.

"No, Zira. I'm used to you now. No other demon would be able to stand you, though." The angel smiled sweetly. Crowley melted inside. It didn't matter how long he'd been with Aziraphale; that smile still knocked him out.

He leaned down and helped himself to those soft, sweet lips. He never had understood why kissing an angel didn't repel him, make him push Zira away and go brush his teeth a million times. Oh, sweet sin… why did something that was supposed to be so wrong, so forbidden… why was it so perfect? Crowley wrapped a lock of Zira's hair around his finger.

So pure and golden, soft and beautiful… shouldn't it burn his fingers like holy water?

He leaned them back onto the couch. Shouldn't the very touch of their skin corrupt them both? Ruin them? Shouldn't Aziraphale's porcelain fingers leave stains and burns where they traced the contour of his face?

The beautiful, beautiful smile… he should be running for the hills. There was a very pronounced hurt deep in his core, thrumming when he took in what he was holding so close. Of course an angel would be beautiful… but why so hurtfully so?

Why didn't he mar the flawless skin, those untamed golden curls, with the touch of his vile, demon hands? Why didn't his yellow, slitted snake eyes make Aziraphale turn away in disgust? He smiled when Aziraphale looked at him, perplexed.

"Just getting lossst in your eyesss…" he hissed, and kissed Zira again. The angel smiled against Crowley's lips. The warm caress of the angel's fingertips on his face only made him hold Aziraphale more tightly.

Zira broke away. He looked worried, now. "Are you alright, Crowley?"

Crowley tried to smile, but couldn't. "I don't know," he whispered. "I really don't." Aziraphale let him sit up, and waited.

"Tell me." Crowley closed his eyes.

"I can't." Aziraphale wrapped his arms around the demon, and Crowley sighed. "I'm sorry."

:P

As hard as Crowley had tried to convince Aziraphale of the great awesomeness that was sleep, the angel had never really gotten the hang of it. But now he was curled up, cuddled into Crowley's chest, eyes closed, breathing softly. A sliver of morning sun crept silently across the room, alighting on Crowley's eyelids. They flickered, and the demon's snakelike eyes emerged slowly.

He looked down at the angel beside him in his arms, smiled. He hadn't thought it was possible for the angel to look any more…sweet…than he already did. Crowley kissed his forehead, and got up to stretch. He went to the window and looked out. The second-story window looked out over a busy street which was already at eight in the morning overflowing with traffic.

The blaring horns weren't doing much for him. He soundproofed the windows with a wave of his hand and went back to the bed. He brushed a few curls off Aziraphale's forehead and waited for the angel to wake up.

"Zira…" The color of the angel's eyes always startled him. They weren't just _blue_. They were the pure, clear blue of a morning in autumn just before the sun became warm. The ring around the outside of the irises were painted that beautiful near-purple blue of the chickory that flourished along highways and seemed to feed off exhaust, sprinkled here and there with flecks of gold.

The angel closed his eyes again as he yawned. "Hmmm… that was restful."

Crowley grinned. "Told you so." He ran his fingers through Aziraphale's golden curls. "How about breakfast?"

"Why not?"

:P

Crowley was crazy for baking. He'd never understood how a flat and runny something could transform in the dry electric oven into a crunchy, flaky and delectable something. Currently, he was making cinnamon rolls with walnuts.

Aziraphale wandered into the room wearing his dark blue robe, running his fingers through his immaculate curls. "Hmmh… what's for breakfast?"

"Cinnamon rolls…" Crowley didn't see any reason for these rolls to take twenty minutes to bake, so they were done in five. No matter how many times he baked bread, cookies, rolls…whatever. Still blew his mind. Aziraphale cooled one of them and bit into it. "These are delectable, my dear." He went to lick his fingers.

Grinning devilishly, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's hand before he could get to it and slowly sucked the icing off the angel's fingers. Aziraphale blushed and smacked him playfully.

"Go eat your cinnamon bun, you old snake." But he smiled, and Crowley melted. If the angel was going to look that gorgeous, he could melt Crowley any time he wanted.

:P

_Brrrrrrr._ Crowley fished the vibrating cell phone out of his pocket. "Yeah."

"Crowley, this is Maggor."

"Ngh. What is it?"

"We've got a present for you." And suddenly he knew. He had to meet someone at the car park.

"Be there in a few." He slid down the banisters to the ground level…there was the Bentley, but no unfamiliar cars. He looked around. Waited for a while. Leaned against the fender of the Bentley and played Tetris on his cell phone.

A sleek grey Benz pulled up to the curb; Crowley turned off the game and approached it warily. A darkly beautiful but weary-looking woman stepped out and walked around to the sidewalk. Crowley watched her with a man's hungry eyes as her slender legs strode confidently around the fender. He shook himself. "Ah, there you are, Mr. Crowley. Here he is."

Crowley had been expecting something ugly, something terrible, some sort of monster. But it was a rather harmless-looking child with soft blond curls and a sleepy little face. It yawned and closed its eyes again. The lady looked him over.

"Well, Mr. Crowley?"

"Right, right." He took the carrycot from her. She reached back in the car for a bag and handed it to him.

"So there's all his things, and good luck, because you'll definitely need it."

"Right. Thank you…"

"Lillaeth. I'm his mother." Crowley nodded patronisingly and muttered "Right, right, of course…" slightly incoherently.

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever." The grey Benz drove off and Crowley looked down at the tiny baby in the carrycot.

"Alright. Let's go."

The attendant in the little box at the street entry watched after him, wide-eyed. Shook himself, and stared back out at the street. Goddamnit. He had to stop taking whiskey with his lunch. It was bringing his hallucinations back.

:P

When Crowley got back to his flat, he found an extra room off the living area. His nostrils flared in anger. They'd been messing with _his flat!_ He stopped short at the door and peered in. It was done up in a theme of soft blues, furnished with a bassinet, chest of drawers, changing table, and rocking chair. Crowley shook his head, and stepped carefully into the room, careful not to bump the carrycot against the doorframe.

"It's only eleven years," Crowley muttered to himself, unstrapping the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness and picking him up carefully. The child grunted in his sleep and opened his eyes.

Blue. A beautiful blue. Crowley found himself smiling. He looked confused for a minute, then set the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness in the bassinet. He dug in the bag for a blanket and tucked him in.

The blue eyes stared up at him blearily. "What, you're done sleeping now?" The darling chubby face screwed itself up into wailing position and began to cry loudly. Crowley sighed, and picked the baby back up, patting it on the back. "Shhh. Hey. What is it? You hungry? Is that it?"

The child only cried more loudly. The demon groaned, and looked in his cabinets for some sort of baby food or something to quiet it. If they'd added another room to his flat, surely they'd stock the cabinets.

_Oh, lord,_ Crowley thought, rooting through the fridge as the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness wailed in his ear, _this is going to be a _long_ eleven years…_

:P


	3. Secrets

_Secrets_

_Shades of Grey_

_Chapter 3_

_Twelve and Suchan_

:P

Squeeek. Squeeek. Squeek… the rocking chair was doing little to calm his nerves. Crowley hadn't actually slept for a week and his temper was much the worse for it. He was rocking the child (hopefully) to sleep, which it had done for only one-hour-and-forty-five-minute segments over the past week. Ugh.

With a small sigh, the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness closed his eyes and fell asleep in the crook of Crowley's arm. "Finally," Crowley mouthed, and rocked a bit more before he set the baby in the bassinet, tucked a blanket around it.

He crept out of the room and flopped onto the couch. "Oh Je—Sa—" He stopped, glared at nothing in particular, then settled for a guttural "_uggggh._" He thought about calling Aziraphale. His fingers twitched above his phone, then dropped back onto the arm of the couch. No. He couldn't involve the angel in this. Not yet. Hell was probably still watching him like a gaggle of feral hawks.

Besides, he could handle it. He'd managed to avoid an eternity in the Lowest of Torments. He could handle a _baby,_ for Go—for Sa—for _someone's _sake. It wasn't like the child was _actually_ a dragon or Great Beast of the Pit that would inconveniently discorporate him.

It was a _baby_.

That was easy.

Right?

:P

There was a confused cry from the nursery. Crowley pulled himself up off the couch and went to see what was the matter. The baby was contentedly grabbing clumsily at his toes, gurgling. Crowley smiled, shaking his head. He leaned over the edge of the bassinet and reached out to tickle the Antichrist. "Easily amused, aren't ya."

The child looked up at him with his big blue eyes, hand outstretched. "What?" Crowley reached down, and the tiny, soft fingers closed around his thumb. The baby gurgled.

Crowley stared, confused. There was something welling up in his chest, something that almost tore him apart. It was _cute._ The stupid thing was fucking adorable. Crowley picked him up and cuddled him against his shoulder. The itty little fingers fumbled for the buttons on Crowley's shirt, and settled for grabbing a snatch of the material.

He stopped. The smile fell. Someone was here. The door handle rattled a little bit, then a knock. "Crowley?" Oh shit. It was Aziraphale. _Suppose I should have realised he'd come over if I didn't return a call._ "Crowley, are you home?" The voice sounded nearer, and the light footsteps rounded the corner down the hall. The angel stopped short, locking eyes with Crowley.

Not realising this was a terrible time for it, the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness giggled happily at the lovely newcomer.

Crowley softly patted the tiny, helpless creature on the back and sighed. "Look, 'Zira, I can explain."

Aziraphale smiled confusedly. "You might want to, Crowley. Why are you holding a baby?"

Crowley looked down at the little Antichrist and back up at the angel. "Well, it was either this or suffer eternally in the Lowest of Torments, so…" Crowley shrugged.

Aziraphale started to shake his head, then stopped. His eyes grew wide. "Crowley, that's not… it isn't… is it?"

"This here," Crowley began, patting the baby on the back, "is the Antichrist. They offered me eleven years to take care of it in lieu of eternal torment." Crowley stared down the angel's fearful face. "Honestly, what would you have chosen, angel?"

Aziraphale regained some of his composure. "Well, I suppose I would have chosen to raise the Antichrist." He came closer. The baby looked up at him and smiled. "Where's the flaming red eyes and demonic tail?"

Crowley shrugged. Aziraphale smiled indulgently and tickled the Antichrist. "Does he have a name?"

The demon stopped, thought, shook his head. "No, I was kind of too busy taking care of him to think of one."

"May I…?"

"Be my guest, Angel."

"How about Augustine?"

Crowley groaned. "For one thing, angel, it's a saint, and for two, it's not even a popular name. He'll get laughed at."

Aziraphale made a face at him. "Well, I think Augustine is a fine name," he muttered sullenly.

A name came to Crowley, suddenly. "What about Cain?"

Aziraphale looked up at him from tickling the baby. "Are you really sure that's wise? Cain, he who first killed his brother? The name of the very first murderer?"

Crowley bounced the Antichrist on his hip; the baby giggled. "Down There would go for it. Didn't he feel bad about it later, though?" he finished in a murmur.

Aziraphale pulled a Bible out of thin air and pulled it open to Genesis. Crowley backed away, shielding the baby from its poison pages. The angel flipped through a few pages, biting his lower lip in concentration. Crowley found this incredibly seductive, but Aziraphale was holding _the Book. _He couldn't let it touch him or the Antichrist. He kept a tight grip on the small child.

"Hm. Doesn't really say. It just notes Cain's complaint that he will be slain by people outside of the garden…and the Lord sayeth that anyone who slays Cain will be punished…et cetera…"

"Well, we can pretend he regretted it. Cain?" Crowley said, looking down at the innocent, chubby little face, blue eyes aglow with a smile. "How's that?"

The baby cooed, and Crowley took this as a yes. Aziraphale shrugged, and the Bible vanished. "That's that, I guess," said the angel, and held out his arms for little Cain. "You know, for the Spawn of Satan, he's really quite adorable."

:P

"And here's his blanket, there's a few extra bottles in there…"

"Crowley." Aziraphale gave him a look, one of exasperation and sarcastic knowing. "It's only for one night. I think I can keep him in one piece." Cain, leaning over the angel's shoulder as he walked away, waved goodbye and let his head droop sleepily on Aziraphale's shoulder.

Crowley waved, sighed. Felt anxious.

He'd asked the angel to take care of Cain for a night so he could get some actual sleep. Now, in hindsight…in light of the nagging fears tugging at the bottom of his stomach, he didn't quite know how he'd get to sleep.

He lay down on the clean, fine cotton sheets, deep midnight blue, and settled his head back into the pillow. He thought again about Cain, and that last little wave of those chubby little fingers…and closed his eyes.

He needn't have worried. He was sound asleep in seconds.

:P

Aziraphale smiled sweetly as Cain clasped his stuffed bear to his chest and closed his eyes. The angel turned off the lights and closed the door to the room. He sat in front at the desk, propping _Jack Cade: Frontier Hero_ open on his lap, listening in earnest for any noises from the back room.

Footsteps sounded from his left. There was a dark figure standing near the door, softly closing it. _Funny,_ thought Aziraphale with a quick stab of fear. _I thought I locked that door. _

The man smiled benevolently at him, but Aziraphale couldn't mistake the scent that wafted over to him from that direction: the man was a demon.

"We're closed, sir," Aziraphale said politely, putting a marker in his book and closing it.

"Yes," the demon said quietly in a deep voice, "but there's something I've been looking for and I never seem to catch you during your opening hours." A slight wrinkle of the nose, but other than that, the demon's face was absolutely gorgeous, lean with good cheekbones, a long straight nose and brilliant, dark brown eyes. And the lips. Full and… sort of seductive, really.

The angel realised he'd been staring. He blushed a full red and looked away. "Is there anything I can help you find?"

The demon smiled prettily. "Yeah…you wouldn't have happened to see the Antichrist anywhere running around, would you?" Aziraphale blanched, blue eyes straining to look anywhere but toward the back room.

"Antichrist?"

"Yes, you know… the child of our Master who precipitates the End of the World."

Aziraphale looked at him coldly. "'_Our_ master'?"

The demon ducked his head apologetically. "Mine, then. I noticed from the stench you were an angel. Suppose I should have checked my speech."

"Indeed," the angel murmured, insulted. "I must say, dear boy, you don't smell much better yourself."

"Touché." The demon smiled, this time with a little more malice. He leaned over the desk, resting on his elbows and stared the angel straight in the eyes. Aziraphale held himself back. "However, back on task, my spies have indicated you are a bit… close…with the demon Crowley."

"Who?" Aziraphale did his best innocent face.

"Don't play with me," snarled the demon. "He's the one looking after the Antichrist, and now the boy is no longer in the flat. _You_ have to know where the child is."

Aziraphale leaned forward. "I _have_ to?" He was incredibly proud of the incredulous expression on his face; his insides were quivering like terrified gelatin.

The demon studied his face carefully, with a slightly pained furrow in his brow. "It really hurts to look at you," he murmured. Suddenly, he leaned forward and kissed the angel roughly. Aziraphale slapped him.

Five seconds later, they were holding each other's gazes steadily, cooly. The demon was holding his face, where a bright red handprint was slowly fading at the edges. The angel was holding on to the arms of his chair, on the defensive.

The demon rubbed his jaw, and began to laugh. "What a prude! Had a feeling you'd be. Most angels are."

"That mark won't leave your face for at least a year. I hope you've got something to wear that matches it," Aziraphale snapped, hoping it was scathing enough to piss the demon off.

It worked. The eyes were red, aflame with rage. "A year," he said slowly. "Well, at least I'll have a story to tell." He advanced slowly, and Aziraphale stood up and backed away. His back hit the wall.

The demon stopped directly in front of the angel. Aziraphale was feeling incredibly frightened, and slightly awed. The demon was still hot, no matter how bad he smelled, no matter how predatory he was.

"They'll tell it for eons," the demon whispered, clasping Aziraphale's wrists in his hands. "How Maggor felled the Angel." Aziraphale tried to turn away, but the demon held his lips fast with his own. The demon knew how to kiss like the most talented of humans, but it was still terrible. When Maggor released him, his cheeks were damp with tears. He felt wholly violated. His face was burning.

Maggor's hips still held him against the wall. "So," he said quietly, untucking the angel's shirt and caressing his back, "you gonna tell me where the Antichrist is or not? I can keep this up all night if I have to."

Aziraphale wished that Crowley would realise that he was in trouble and come to his rescue. The demon was much stronger than Aziraphale was, and damn this human flesh! It was so…sensitive. Aziraphale gasped as Maggor nipped his neck, started unbuttoning his shirt. "I told you, I don't know where the child is!" he croaked, inwardly shocked at his ambivalence of wanting it to end and never wanting Maggor to stop. _Think about Crowley, you miserable sop!_ Aziraphale closed his eyes. "Please. I don't know anything about it."

Maggor growled, kissing Aziraphale's jaw fervently. He stared the angel down. "That's bullshit, and you know it, Angel." The way he said "Angel" wasn't a teasing term of endearment, the way Crowley said it. It was spat, and it was derogatory with much the same connotation as normally used with the term 'spic'.

Aziraphale grabbed the demon's shoulders, intending to push him away, but Maggor only took this as a sign the angel wanted more. He pinned Aziraphale completely and, the angel was ashamed to admit to himself, pleasurably. No! No, no, no, no, _no._ He couldn't be thinking like that. He'd _Fall._

And Cain could wake back up at any moment.

Aziraphale fought feebly as Maggor whirled him around and leaned him back onto the desk, mysteriously clear of books. "Don't. I told you, I don't _know_ anything—"

"Don't know anything my ass, Angel. You know exactly where he is and I'm going to keep feeling you up until you tell me." Maggor smiled evilly. "And I'm going to enjoy it." Aziraphale tried to push them both off the desk, but his knees were directly over the corner and Maggor was straddling his hips and pinning his wrists to the desk. "But by all means, keep fighting. It just makes this more interesting."

He pretended not to notice the demon's lips making their way down his chest, pretended not to feel the hands now fumbling with his belt.

"Stop." Maggor paused for a second, giving Aziraphale enough time to swing a fist and crack him across the jaw. The demon lost his balance and tripped over onto the floor. Aziraphale leapt off the desk and grabbed one of the books off a podium.

He had no idea why he hadn't thought of it earlier; probably was too busy enjoying Maggor sucking at his neck—shh! The ancient Bible was in his hands now, crumbling a bit at the edges. (Normally this would have horrified Aziraphale but now was not the time to be picky.)

Maggor looked at it, holding his jaw. Aziraphale enjoyed the dawning horror on the demon's face. "You touch me again and so help me God, I will melt you until there's nothing left. I think I've got a bit of holy water around here somewhere, too."

The demon knew he was out of his depth now. He didn't dare get too close to the Book. He stood, and, still rubbing his jaw, made for the door. Suddenly, Maggor turned back around and pointed an angry finger at him. "I will come back. I know you know where he's at. Next time I'll have your _soul_."

Trying not to be intimidated by such a threat, _I'll have your soul,_ Aziraphale waved the creaking Bible at him. "Go away," he said uninterestedly.

With veins bursting in his temples, Maggor left, slamming the door behind him. Aziraphale sighed and placed the Bible back under its plastic case and reset the temperature and pressure settings. _I'll have your soul._ The human form was "I'll have your guts for garters" or "I'll kill you" something of the like, but it was a lot less powerful. Aziraphale breathed slowly, staring at the Bible in its case. When a human body died it would only release the soul, so guts for garters wasn't a huge deal. There was the eternal soul to go on to A Better Place. But for the ethereal types, once you Fell (for angels, anyway) and/or had your soul destroyed… well, that was pretty much it. Zippo. Nada. Gone.

And it was only used when absolutely dead certain you'd fight to the death of your own soul to essentially destroy the Eternal Soul of an angel or demon. Aziraphale rubbed his trembling hands together, and trod softly to the door of the back room, listening. There was a tiny shuffling of blankets. He opened the door and went in, leaned over the crib. Cain was fast asleep, thumb in his mouth and bear in his other hand.

"What a heavy sleeper," Aziraphale chortled in a whisper. He pulled the blanket up over Cain's stomach and left the room again. Cain turned over in his sleep, and pulled the bear up under his chin.

:P

Anyone would have thought he was trying to drown himself. It was a full thirty minutes before the shower water turned off and Aziraphale dried instantly and pulled on his clothes. Cain was babbling in the next room.

"Alright," Aziraphale said cheerfully, coming back into the room, and picked Cain up. He fussed something terrible until Aziraphale let the bear come too. "Eat time. Ready for some nummies, Cain?" It was incredibly enjoyable, actually, taking care of Cain. He was a sweet little child.

Aziraphale was being careful, though. He didn't let Cain stray from the back two rooms. They played with Teddy and read stories and ate and slept only in those rooms. Aziraphale had posted a sign on the door that read "Sorry, Closed until Thursday for Family Emergency". Hopefully no one would bother him again until Thursday.

The threat of holy water, which he did actually have, was probably enough to keep Maggor away for the time being. He'd be back, though, the angel thought, pausing. No one made a threat like that lightly. Cain looked up at him, blue eyes curious, sucking contentedly at the bottle.

Aziraphale smiled at him and began to rock the chair once more. The baby's eyelids drooped sleepily, and Aziraphale looked concernedly at the window, curtains drawn tightly against it. Shadows from the trees behind the bookshop played against them.

The angel watched for any larger shapes like that of a human, but there was nothing but the trees. He sighed. Paranoia was never a good feeling for an angel to have. It was almost noon. Crowley would be back soon, and they could talk about it.

Yes. Aziraphale set the bottle down on the table and patted Cain on the back, sighing. _Just a little while longer, and you'll be safe, Cain. Me, on the other hand…_

:P

"I told you," a staticky Crowley yelled angrily into his ear, "I just left him with a babysitter so I could get five fucking hours of sleep! He's perfectly fine! I'm going to pick him up in two minutes."

"Make it one," Maggor snarled, and cut the connection. Satan, he hated dealing with this shit. He flipped the phone closed and shoved it in his pocket. He roved aimlessly and distractedly through the crowd, finally stopping by a mirrored window to take a look at his face. There it was: bright red handprint clear as day from his cheekbone to his jaw. Hurt like hell, too. He touched it gingerly and fumed silently.

He hissed at an old lady who was staring at him. She hobbled off hurriedly.

He turned back to the window. "Fucking stupid angel. I _will_ have your soul, if it's the last thing I do." He frowned at his beautiful marred face in the window, and traced the outline. "And I'm going to have a blast making you Fall."

:P


End file.
